According to Legend
by Link'sLily
Summary: With a sinister voice whispering in his ear, Link might go insane. He and his unstable companions have to prevail before that happens or else the hero's journey will be close to impossible.
1. The Hero

The Hero

Beneath him rolled thunder. Drums beating incessantly. Only he could break the rhythm. The rolling hills were an invitation to him, a challenge to his pursuers. The farther he went, the safer he'd be. His mind paved an endless path. He could not see them, he did not know who they were, what they wanted with him, but knew they sought to catch him, and knew they would not.

He woke with his head on his desk. Four legs to two. Grass to hardwood. Thunder to the throbbing of a poor heart. He gaped his mouth. From its corner spilled fresh drool, reviving a dried river on his chin. What time was it? Early? Late? An hour that could be both? His office was windowless, his sleep schedule horrific. The lantern was wheezing its last breath. The clock, two hours slow, read eight. He closed his eyes to retrieve the thunder, recreate the drums, the wind, the speed. A futile effort. The dream faded to a spotty image, the experience reduced to thoughts.

There was a knock on the door. Link's eyelids scrunched tighter together. "Link?" a voice asked.

"What?"

"Um, well, I was wondering if-" the voice dwindled until it became muffled through the wood.

Link groaned, stood up, and opened the door. "What'd you say?"

His shadow fell over Sam, his worker, who stood horrified. "Good morning, sir. Um, I was wondering if I should feed the horses now or wait until later?"

"Why would you wait until later?"

"Well, I thought maybe their schedule would be messed up or something and-"

"No, feed them now."

"Okay. And we're low on supplies so I was wondering if you wanted me to go downtown and-"

"No, I'll do that."

"Okay, sorry if I-"

"It's fine."

Link closed the door and stood before sitting down, taking a moment to glance at his broken expression in the wall mirror. This is how our journey begins, of course. With the hero. The one whose shoulders break down from excessive weight and whose mind grows past recognition. But, to be fair, all their minds grew past recognition.

His mind didn't just grow; it corroded, rotted and dried, then blossomed through the cracks. At age eight, his life took a turn and things didn't seem relevan t. At age eighteen, this journey was forced upon him and things changed.

Link leaned back in his chair and gazed at the paintings hanging above his desk. They watched over him in rows of two, three paintings in each. They, dull and lifeless, were there before he was. They were never his decision. He couldn't imagine why the artist painted them, what his motivation was to recreate a woman by a stand and merchant sitting on the street, both scenes draped in shadow and mediocrity. He liked one: a depiction of a hunting trip. It was because of the horses, two brown, one black, and one white with a clever face. He looked at this horse for a while, this clever-looking one with its mouth open and front legs in the air, head back, eyes staring out into nothing. He, however, believed this horse was staring at him and it was not just the way it was painted. Its gaze turned disquieting. He broke eye-contact and looked down, finding a new interest in the wood of his desk. Grain patterns, mineral streaks, some warping around dark knots like lines of ants around a stone, some rippling outwards like a snapshot of a lively pond. Disturbed magnetic fields, hardened lava, stratus clouds. Cosmos. It was too early and he had too little to do.

Link was at war with himself. He didn't engage his workers unless needed, but when alone, he found himself sickened by silence. He didn't know why he felt rushed to hear his own thoughts when he had none worth listening to, why he was eager for the day to end when the next would be identical, why he worked so hard when there was nothing to be proud of, no one to notice.

He didn't care for his desk or the piles of papers that he didn't need, or did need, the pile of papers he could possibly need. He didn't care for the arrangement of furniture that he never bothered to change. He'd think it was temporary, then, when he'd remember it wasn't, frivolous. The way his chair squeaked when he stood up, the way his drawer hit his knee when he opened it, the sound of a fist knocking against his door. Something about the wood made it shrill. The fibers, maybe.

But in the end, these things, like all things, were fine.


	2. The Vagabond

Arthur was a vagabond. Not a homeless failure with foul teeth; in fact, Arthur put effort into his appearance. No, the rambunctious young man was a vagabond by choice. A civilized vagabond, a cosmopolitan. This was partly due to his inability to stay in one place, partly due to his incurable wanderlust, partly due to lots of things. Once he grew of age (not of maturity but of bravery), he fled, heading for the unknown just beyond the hills. The life of a traveler suited him well, for a few reasons. A part-time and fair-weather friend described Arthur as a hot object people tossed around to avoid being burned, an adrenalin-fueled game of 'hot potato' (if he had known, Arthur would have rebuked; maybe he _liked_ being tossed around, or, better yet, maybe he's the one who's _jumping_ from person to person!).

If caught in the right mood, Arthur absolutely vibrated with energy. Equipped with a mouth as quick as his feet, he had a horrible habit of speaking too fast. His lips and his listener could barely keep up. His leather-bound fingers drummed against the cafe counter, as if their owner [M1] was waiting for something or someone. Arthur even glanced over his shoulder towards the door, [M2] as if this something or someone was about to walk through it. This behavior made him seem suspicious to those around him, as he [M3] should; he was, technically, a criminal. His roll lay before him half-eaten, his coffee lukewarm.[M4]

He had arrived in town that morning and decided to stay until he imbibed all the life the place had to offer. Soon he will look back and realize it was more than he bargained for. Arthur never had to come to Feara. Arthur never had to do anything. [M5]

After sitting at the counter, alone, for an hour, he looked around and saw that the cafe was not only empty, but draped in twilight. The sun had passed over the western wall and it was time for him to move on to a more time-appropriate location-a bar. Just as his weight lifted off the chair, however, a young girl sat next to him and he sunk back down. She didn't look directly at him, but he smiled at her anyway, let his irises bounce down and up, and said, "Hi, sweetheart." She smiled gently, said 'hi' quietly, and looked away awkwardly. Something made her look back, however, and she ended up staring at the side of his head just long enough for him to engage. She was looking at his scar. Arthur loved his scar, this little imperfection that offset his right sideburn; it was a conversation starter. He was lucky it wasn't ugly enough to ward people off. "I fell on my knife," he said, tapping it.

She seemed regretful. "Oh. I'm sorry I-"

"Don't be. It was my fault. I was running and carrying it at the same time."

"Carrying what?"

"My knife."

"Oh." Her eyes dropped to his belt.

"You know how people tell ya not to run with those sort of things, you know, sharp things? That's why. I mean, it was a hundred to one shot, the way I fell on it, but still."

"Um, why-?"

"-Why was I running with it out?" He looked over his shoulder then back at her and grinned. He had the best smile. "Can you keep a secret?"

She smiled back. "I think so."

He liked her. She looked like the type that would've dismissed him-put together, attractive, busy-looking-and at first she did, with her wandering attention and nervous neck-touching. But now there was a light in her eye and he considered himself lucky. "I was running from some big thugs in the West. You know," he lifted a downward facing palm high as he could reach. "Huge. And I said something or they said something or I spilled something or I owed them something, who knows?" He did. He knew the story perfectly. But she, this busy-looking pretty girl, probably didn't want to hear the details. He was worried he would lose her. Didn't want that light to die. He had to practice restrain[M6] . "And they started chasing me...on _horseback._ " He paused, waiting for her reaction, then added, "I was on foot."

"You were on foot?"

"Yeah, I'm really fast." He was. He reached down towards his belt and his hand resurfaced holding a dagger so reflective it had to be made of mirrors. "But I tripped. It happens. And I fell on this," he said, tilting the blade near his face. Light flickered off its many facades. Tiny yellow ovals danced about her face. "Fell on an angle that made it slice off a good chunk of my face. Hurt like hell."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It was my fault. And besides, could've been much worse, you know? Like it could've got me in the face, the real face, where my eyes are. I'm fine with my sideburn being a little slanted." He shifted in his chair. "You know, I don't think people appreciate having nice faces. Like I seriously doubt someone with a face like yours is grateful."

"What do you mean?"

"Come on, with all the compliments you must get, all the men chasing you down, you've become spoiled, haven't you? Either that or you forced yourself to be humble, to be 'polite'. I think that's more rude really, since there are people out there with real fucked up faces and then there's a gorgeous girl like you walking around blushing."

The light brightened. "That's not my fault. You see your own face so often, you get used to it. I don't look at myself and think: wow I'm so good looking. I think: there I am."

"You should think it though, that you're good looking. Cuz why not? I mean, what's the harm in that?"

"It's cocky."

"First of all, there's nothing wrong with being a little cocky. At least you feel good about yourself-"

"About the way you _look_."

"W-yeah whatever anyways second of all, you think that to yourself, you know it, remind yourself of it, and if someone asks you if you think you're pretty, you'd say….?" She blushed again and looked down. He smiled, thinking she looked like a little girl. "You'd say…?"

"Yes I am."

"Right. But don't go around telling people you are or acting like you know you are, just make sure you know it and are happy you don't have a fucked up face."

"Do you think you're pretty?"

"Oh, I'm stunning."

"You are stunning."

"I know." Arthur was, in his own awkward way, stunning. He had this [M7] long, handsome face with brilliant eyes whose golden-brown color was easier to find in a cat's than in a person's. High above them sat two bushy eyebrows that moved freely about, letting him contort his expression anyway he pleased. His hair was short and intentionally messy; deep brown locks danced on top his head. He was fickle about facial hair. With it he looked rustic, experienced, wise, cultured, dangerous. Bare, which he often was, he looked young, which he was. Arthur was a young vagabond and his face, in his own awkward way, was stunning. His lanky, long-legged six-foot-three-inch body was a whole nother ordeal. "So are you."

She leaned her head into her hand, messing up her neat hair, and smiled like she felt ill and somehow enjoyed it. "Got any more scars?"

"None that I could show you without undressing."

She seemed to like that idea. Arthur kept her tethered to him through linked elbows as they walked down the streets of Feara. There was something about the way Arthur strolled; it was like he hadn't a care in the world. It seemed like he didn't; his stomach was full, his food was free (he made it so[M8] ) and, according to the pretty girl glued to his side, he had a place to stay that night.

However, if someone were to focus on his brilliant eyes, they would see this wasn't entirely true. He was trying far too hard to keep his attention directly ahead; the county-wall that drenched everything in a washed out shadow made him terribly anxious. The sky is merely cloudy, he told himself. It is wide and there isn't a tall wall on either side of it blocking the sun. Arthur was adept at ignoring things, putting them off for another time, fooling himself, but now, in the streets of Feara, he was overcompensating. He watched himself from afar, taking note of every step, every muscle twitch, the clothes he was wearing, the way the street lamps casted distorted shadows. He decided right then he would leave in the morning.

People passed by him, through him[M9] , carrying produce and supplies, riding carriages, selling art on the side of the road, swept away in their painted, edible, brown-colored things[M10] . He decided he could stare at them instead of this vanishing point that lead everywhere and nowhere. A woman by a produce stand bit into a peach so ripe he could hear it squish against her gums. He could see the juice run down her wrist into her sleeve and he imagined it reaching her chest, all along leaving a sticky trail of residue on her skin. A swaddling cloth poked out of her bag. Her eyes were soft and tired. He rarely saw mothers, especially one alone, eating a peach. It seemed too young of a fruit. The painting the merchant was attempting to sell was of a forest, which he thought was funny, since Feara was the farthest thing from. There was even sunlight poking through the canopy. He then realized these things didn't distract him, they just reminded him. The peach, which would be golden and crimson, was dusty and the painting, like the walls of an old house, was faded.

He wanted to escape into this girl's home, where they could turn all lights off and there would be no sickening shadows or faded colors. He wanted to escape into her company and be swept away with her painted, edible, brown-colored things, and he considered himself lucky he found her. However, as time passed he felt the silence between them grow thick and his chances of spending the night grow thin. He could feel her getting nervous. Her home could be miles away.

"I can't believe this place," Arthur began. It was a shame that all he could think about was the wall. "All walled in like this, I'd go mad."

"Well, um…."

"Maybe you guys are lucky, I don't know, with all the violence going on lately."

"Violence?"

"But I guess the problem is a local thing so maybe being walled in is worse, nowhere to run….Who knows?" he looked up. "But at least it keeps patients out. I'm not sure if they can get over that thing. I heard of a flying one but that was probably just a rumor."

"Patients?"

"You know, those deformed little bastards that are running around. They kinda look like a person was torn apart then stitched back together? But like they were stitched back together real badly? People've been calling them patients, maybe you call them something different here."

Her arm slid out of his. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You haven't heard of patients? I thought everyone would by now. The first spotting was a couple weeks ago. I guess Feara's really out of the loop, huh? Good, I guess. You don't want to know what a patient is. You know what I heard the other day while I was out West? I heard it's one man doing all this, causing all this insanity. Not sure if I believe it but-"

"You're insane."

Arthur chuckled. "Well, I have been called that before but no, and, you know, fingers crossed-"

She walked away from him, frantic. Arthur stepped forward, about to chase after her, but then saw she was headed towards gendarmes[M11] . After watching her speak to them and seeing her point back towards him, he bounced on the balls of his feet, ready to bolt. She knew nothing he's[M12] done, but he was guilty of things nonetheless. He turned into an alleyway, leaving the town square, and headed in the direction of the trolley. Even his running stride was carefree, long and steady; he knew the guards wouldn't catch him. He was really fast.


	3. The Town of Feara

*Link's name is Leo here...I changed it for a new original work but it flows with the two previous chapters, hope you enjoy!

Encircled by a mountain range lay an immense field; south of this field sat an indifferent town; surrounding this town sat a two-hundred foot wall; on top of this wall sat a crow as black and evil and imminent as death itself. Its head tucked below the arch of its wings, its eyes glass beads, its mind pulsing with the knowledge of the things dwelling below. Its figurative shadow could drench the town below in darkness. It stood small only now. It opened it wings, an ink stain across the sky, and took flight, down towards the indifferent town of Feara. While other bestial birds occasionally parted their beaks to dine, call, or vacuously be; this crow traveled silently with its mouth closed, always, permanently, it seemed. It stopped on the chimney of a cottage, felt the family beneath its wrinkled feet, the mother and the young boy. One by the stove, the other at the table. It waited there, listening to their voices travel up the hearth, then left. Down it dove until it glided five inches above its shadow on the ground. It winded through paths no wider than three bodies across, past doors and windows, over stray cats that flinched as its claws grazed the tips of their ears. The alleys opened to a town square riddled with bodies. It flew among the shins of the people, the ignorant citizens of Feara. How could they not see it? How could they not hear it? Not feel the wind of its wings or the tickle its feathers left behind on their calves and thighs? Its presence went unknown, hiding in the lull, so imperceptible its existence could (and should) be questioned. Sung and laughed children, and clicked the tongue of a carriage driver, and rang the bells of the church and schoolhouse, and chimed the clock-tower. And also squawked the crow. It stopped on top a supply stand.

Leaned against this stand was our hero. He heard the flutter of wings, mistook it for a voice, and, when he looked up, he saw that the crow had moved on, sailing off to disease the rest of the town. It melted into the shadows of an intersecting alleyway.

Leo watched the spot where the crow had left him, thinking something else might show, then returned his attention to, essentially, nothing. Behind him a clerk gathered supplies he had requested, ahead people orbited the fountain, to his right were rows of stands and store fronts, and to his left were the abandoned gallows, the town's greatest shame. It was the only place in the town that seemed to be in a forever shadow. Leo never paid much attention to it; its nooses hung as decorative paintings.

On this day, the day this journey arguably begins, a crowd was gathered around the gallows, a man standing on its stage in front of them. His shaved head floated comfortably in the space between two nooses. He was halfway into his speech when Leo tuned in. The speaker's cadences were hard to ignore, unfortunately. His voice preluded death for the deaf. "What have they done to care for the victims or to protect those who haven't yet been afflicted? What research have they done to help us understand this epidemic and give us a chance to stop it? What have they done?! Please, let me know!" The crowd was rapt. Leo, who had noticed the clerk had stopped gathering his supplies to listen to the speaker, turned and rapped his knuckles against the stand's counter.

"By next year," the speaker continued. "Half of you standing before me will, in one way or another, fall mentally ill. Four of you will be diagnosed with a personality or anxiety disorder. Three of you will develop chronic depression, if you haven't so already, and a few, an unfortunate few, will completely lose their minds...along with their motor and communication skills, the perception of their world, their grip on reality..."

The speaker himself seemed schizophrenic; his speech pattern jumped between dismay and giddy condescendence. "And maybe, just maybe, one of you will become a psychopath and go on a killing spree." He paused to enjoy their reaction then said, "Raise of hands, how many of you know someone who in the last five years has been diagnosed as mentally ill or mentally impaired?" Seven hands went up. "And now keep them raised if that person is still alive." Four dropped. "What about out of prison?" 2 dropped. The speaker looked at the lone survivor and asked, "A friend of yours?"

"My sister."

Leo lifted himself off from the stand at the sound of the survivor's voice. He knew him. "Sir?" the clerk said after Leo, who was already ten feet away.

"I pray for you and your sister," the speaker said. "May she never get caught. And may our savior soon return and bear the marks of bravery around his neck."

 _"Sam!"_ Leo barked, worming his way through the crowd, which, like cattle, stood heavy and still.

"Oh, Leo.." Sam refused to look his employer in the eye. The speaker had silenced. "W-what are you doing down here?"

"What are _you_ doing down here?"

"I-I'm taking my break. I'm sorry I've been gone so long, Elizabeth said that you said-"

Leo walked away, knowing Sam would follow. "I'm more concerned that you'd listen to a gallows speech than take a long break."

"Excuse me!" the speaker called after them.

"Don't look," Leo muttered to Sam. "Just keep walking."

The speaker, dressed in a suit of a worn-in purple (which wouldn't fool most), leapt off the gallows stage and landed in the middle of the crowd, a yellow ring of dust rising around his feet. It was uncanny how quickly he reached the two young men. Frightening, almost. He spoke to Leo but smiled at Sam every other word. "Do you two gentlemen have somewhere to be or are you just denying your friend of the truth?" His eyes were frantic.

"I'm not denying him of anything." Leo turned only to find the speaker had materialized in front of his path.

"Are you trying to invalidate the epidemic?" The speaker had this horrible habit of looking around the crowd and sporting this rehearsed face of disbelief. "…It's people like this!" he cried, pointing a finger at Leo, "Who are living in denial and trying to convince the good people of Feara that this is all is our heads!"

"I'm not invalidating anything." Leo made another attempt to flee but failed. At his knees and clinging to the fabric of his shirt was the speaker, a distressed child, on the verge of tears.

"How can you say that?!"

Leo let his eyes wander about the crowd. "Let go of me."

"You don't understand-"

Leo jerked himself free and walked off, quicker, with his pet following close behind.

The two young men were almost out of sight when the speaker called out, "Have mercy! I'm begging for someone to do something! Gods, please, somebody do something!" The crowd roared as Leo and Sam turned the corner of an intersecting street.

Sam glanced over his shoulder. Leo said, "Don't look back."

* * *

Leo and Sam dodged questions like 'New vests, made of genuine leather; why not take a look?' and 'Spare a few?' and 'Hey, baby, how's it going?' with the answer of 'I don't have any money' as they made their way to the trolley. The trolley was nothing more than a weathered cart. Its attached cable ran steeply upwards. Leo and Sam, like most, never saw where it ended.

The land enclosed by Feara's wall was, unfortunately for most, uneven. Where the wall stood tall, the town was dark and dense. Where the wall seemed short, where its top could almost be seen, is where the land rose and the citadel stood. This palace, made of the finest marble, sat there, a fat prince, high above the town. It was the only place that escaped the shade for all daylight hours and the only place with a living garden. Where the garden stopped, the shadows and barriers began. From outside the wall, the citadel could just barely be seen; its highest gable poked its head over the wall to look at the remaining world. Most trolley-riders stood in front to see the palace blessed in sunlight. Leo, who considered the view something he was far too used to, stood with Sam in the back. The two of them watching the town get smaller as they rode.

"I'm sorry I was listening to a gallows speech," Sam said.

"I feel like if someone told you to jump off a cliff, you would."

"Well, maybe there's a soft bed at the bottom with a beautiful woman in it." By the look on Sam's face, he was embarrassed he had said something so fanciful.

Leo didn't laugh, of course. He didn't even smile. He had a dry sense of humor, if one at all. Getting him to wryly chuckle was a sign of comedic genius. His relationship with the jocular Jack, a worker of his, was brittle. Jack needed to know when to stop; usually he did. In fact, all of Leo's workers needed to keep their boundaries in check; usually they did. Their voices hushed when Leo came sulking by. Whether they were afraid of their boss or if they were afraid of Leo was unclear. It was probably both.

"And maybe the nice stranger really _does_ have sweets," Leo muttered.

Sam abandoned the conversation and looked out past the wall towards the pink strips of clouds that ran across the sky. Two nearby women wearing the most mundane fabric struck conversation and Leo in turn began to stare at them. There was something about the way they spoke that drew his attention; he couldn't tell if he was infatuated or irritated. They let their eyes peck at him.

Leo's appearance mirrored his behavior. Down to the rough bangs that fell over his brow, he was austere. Under arched eyebrows were blinding, deep-set blue eyes that were always angry, between them sat a perfect nose and below that, a diamond-cut jaw. He was incredibly handsome, of course, but not kind-looking in the slightest. This was probably why the women eventually looked frightened.

Sam and Leo, the last riders, got off and watched the trolley roll up into the sunlight.

"We missed the sun," Sam muttered.

"There's always tomorrow." When he wanted to be, Leo was decent at faking sincerity.


	4. The Medic

_The Medic_

Before this journey, labeling Ana as a medic was a stretch. Sure, she knew two-thirds of what professionals knew by heart, she could stitch up someone's wound in a time of an emergency (but really, who couldn't stitch together two patches [M1] when the time came?) and she knew the anatomy of a horse perfectly (how different could people and horses really be?). Still, it was a stretch nonetheless.

Ana was a paragon of a young girl who knew little about who she was or who she wanted to be. She did know that she wanted to be someone and that was worth something.

Pretty, kind, mild-mannered, she would make a good friend, one that would be there when needed. A girl of many idiosyncrasies, she always had her hands up, as if about to interrupt, always put a hand over her heart when moving about a crowded space, always stroked the curls in the back of her copper hair. Always she touched her face. Always bit her nails. As she stood in her employer's office, she gnawed on her middle fingernail, breathing unevenly around it. In her other hand was a letter for her employer. He rarely received letters, how was she to handle the situation?

Standing in Leo's office, frivolous as it was[M2] , was a thrill for Ana. To be in his space, what a crime! She put the letter on his desk. He would stumble upon it and not bother to wonder who delivered it. She looked up to see a glass horse figurine, frozen mid-prance on the shelf. Ana knew little about her employer (still [M3] she knew more than most) but did know they shared a love of horses. And though he rarely expressed it, she knew his was far more severe[M4] . She gingerly picked up the figurine and turned it in her fingers. Its rump reflected big green eyes, speckled skin, and high cheek bones. Ana always thought, and had been told so, that she looked like a deer.

At first glance, this office could have belonged to anyone. Most of the papers on Leo's desk were documents, unsigned, origin unknown. Others were under the name of the ranch's former owner, Leo's uncle, the most terrifying man Ana had ever met (before this journey, of course). Under this terrifying man's reign, Ana did what she was told and made few mistakes. When she did mess up, it was a catastrophe. She'd go blubbering to Leo, who'd tell her he'd fix it. She rarely found out whether he did or not; she'd never get in trouble regardless.

Thankfully, Ana didn't have to work for Leo's uncle for long. Halfway through her first year, he took a job as a blacksmith, disappearing from sight and mind. It seemed strange; the baby bird didn't leave the nest, its mother did.

Despite Leo's relatively kinder nature, there was no change in Ana's work ethic. She did what she did before: what she was told. Except now, she couldn't depend on Leo to fix her mistakes. She could only work harder to avoid them. She could only get better.

A mistake would be loitering in his office, or getting caught doing so. She knew she had to get out before he got back, wherever he was, but she remained planted, trapped in a mindless revery[M5] . It must be nice, she thought, to have a space.

"Ana?"

She flinched, turned, and dropped the horse. With a crack uncannily loud for such a small thing, a leg snapped off and slid across the floor to Leo's boot. The ceiling must've been low, he looked huge.

"Leo! I'm sorry, I know you don't like people in here-"

"It's alright." When they both went to pick up the ruins, she smiled and apologized, again, stepping back. He said it was alright, again. "Why are you in here?" he asked, placing the ruins back on the shelf. The figurine lay on its side, its mouth open, lip curled, its broken hind-leg just beside it, ceramic dust sprayed in the spaces between. She looked to Leo, who was awaiting an answer. What was his question? His eyes veered to his desk. She followed his gaze and snatched the letter as if it was about to fall off the edge of the table.

"Right! I was given this letter for you. I couldn't find you so I thought I'd bring it here."

"I guess the lock was broken."

Was he joking? It was impossible to tell. "It's-ah-from your uncle."

Leo face twitched as he took it from her. "My uncle? He-oh. It's addressed _to_ my uncle not from him."

"Oh, sorry. I just assumed it was for you."

"It's alright. The messenger made the mistake, not you." He held it out. "Would you make sure this gets to him?"

Ana didn't take the letter from him. She merely stared.

"You don't want to go over there, do you?"

"No."

"You can tell someone else to go instead. Tell them I said so."

Ana was too kind to burden another with such a task. It was a fault, really.

Leo threw the letter on his desk, turning his back to Ana. "Never mind, I shouldn't have asked you. I'll see to it."

"Are you sure? Because-"

"It's alright."

"Okay...Where were you today, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Town."

"Town? Why were you in town?"

"I needed to pick up a few things." Silence forced him to turn his head. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, it's just...the messenger told me a speaker hung himself."

"Today?"

"Just an hour or so ago apparently."

"What did he look like?"

"I don't know...Why?"

"No reason. I was down there getting supplies so I-..." he abandoned the thought with a shrug.

"Okay, well, I should-" Her voice faded to nothing. She closed the door so gently Leo had to glance behind his shoulder to make sure she had left.

* * *

On his desk the letter glowed. He turned it in his fingers, watching his uncle's name disappear and reappear over and over. What a sad fact it was, that this would be the most exciting event of his day. He dug his fingernail half a centimeter under the envelope flap, threatening to open it.

Instead he tossed it in the trash seconds later[M6] .


End file.
